Mulciber liked Marlborough, genuinely. The forest around it was lovely, and the sense of history on display made him feel as if he could go back in time there, to a time when Muggles were so afraid of Wizards and Witches that they burned their own at the stake for sneezing wrong. His only real problem with it was the Muggle road running through the heart of it, the A4, as the Muggles called it, connecting London to Bristol. Because of it, the centre of town was choked with automobiles and the families that owned them--frumpy Muggle housewives with their caterwauling children, yelling into their mobiles at their husbands. Joy.
As the Muggle high street dominated the town, Wizarding business was relegated to a back street, where Mulciber had long ago found the Cardinal, a cozy, well-worn country pub where the landlord didn't ask your business and didn't water down the firewhisky. It was crowded that night, full of pilgrims to the stone circles not far off. He went to the bar, ordered a brandy, and told the barman that if anyone asked for Malfalda to direct them to the booth in the back corner. He then scared off the two young boys sitting there and had a seat.
After finishing his drink, he produced a vial of Polyjuice from his cloak, along with a lock of silver hair. He'd never transformed into a dead person before. He started to wonder if he might accidentally make himself as dead as that old bitch Hopkirk... But he swallowed his fears along with the potion, and let the brew do its work. Within moments, he looked like a fussy old lady, sipping a second brandy and waiting impatiently for Gretchen to arrive.